Sean Lovelace

Might I Interest You In A Box?

A simple, honest, rectangular wooden box. I emphasize the word, honest. Or contemplate this: Its form has no direct model in nature. Just the thought of such a shape, much less the actual construction of, is true testament to man’s potential capacity. The same could be said, of course, about its former contents: Velveeta. Ever felt you are devoid a dimension? Listen: Following some act of darkness, as you kneel vomiting into the curbside, a galaxy is stirring above your sweating brow. Oh, your fragile, threatened expression. This is about Bobby, isn’t it? A tooth sunk into the muscle of your existence, I get that. Like with Sara. I get all of that. Sara is like the stars that burn all day, though we only see them at night—that’s how it is exactly. An absence always present. A paradox. Well, this box is waiting to be filled. You could dwell inside it quite comfortably. To express that you recognize but are different than the angels. There is no recorded incident of an angel living in a box. Angels have no need, but we are not angels. Clearly. A box is orderly. You are stating, I am orderly. Storage? To hold onto certain keepsakes. Material effects that trigger memory. A napkin, sea glass, maybe the severed hand of a childhood toy. First aid kits? Various precautionary tools. Who knows what the future may bring? What if someone yells out, “Gas! Gas! Quick boys!” where are you going to run? We are all in need of shelter, right? Install a few shelves and this box becomes a reliable bookcase, or a beer rack! Yes, you have that look. So, while you are alive, a beer rack, a bookcase. Visitors will see this box and think, style, wow, vintage. You will become as interesting as a panther, yet still with a sense of rationality, as you stand straight, alongside the upright box. And when you die? Yes, I’ve said it, when you die. Listen: this box becomes your final resting place. Now, just listen. While you’re using the box for all the books and the beer and the firearms, etc., the wooden top just hangs off the back—we can install a few hinges. When you die, the box closes. We’ll secure the lid with maple pins. I know, I know: Why would I want a coffin while alive? Good question. But death is an inevitable part of life. Buying a box now can help begin a process of education and acceptance: By seeing your wooden box every day, you will be reminded of the preciousness of physical life. And when all is said and done, when Bobby and Sara vanish into what they always truly were—dreams or a long nightmare or no more than the hazy blue stirrings before you fall asleep—you can rest peacefully, knowing that you are enclosed in a Velveeta box to which you have added significant personal meaning. So. What do you think?